Every Day is a Balancing Act
by dinosaurish
Summary: There is a jagged scar on the back of his shell which he earned last February after a blizzard, when the cold had seeped too far into him. He cannot afford to let that happen again. / A Leo-centric slice-of-life oneshot set two years after Splinter died in SAINW!verse.


Sharp slats of yellow light stand on Leo's bedroom wall, almost as bright as sunlight. It's too washed-out, though, thin and pale; it's going to snow soon. He is hunched over in his nest, working on the hosiery April lent him. Leo can't remember what he did last winter—he spent some time in the sewers, but not much—but this year he has to be more careful. There is a jagged scar on the back of his shell which he earned last February after a blizzard, when the cold had seeped too far into him. He cannot afford to let that happen again.

So he is working on the pantyhose, which April assured him would help stave off the cold if he fitted it under his usual wraps. It isn't safe for her or Casey to be seen in public right now, so she lent him just the one pair—if he ruins it, he will have to either steal more somewhere else or go without. After everything, he still trusts her to do right by him, and she has always been as smart as—

Leo's knife works through the hose with delicate ripping noises. It's satisfying, like peeling off medical tape. He'd like to have four even pieces by the end of it with more to spare, but April is too small for that, he thinks. It's a shame. The fabric is so delicate. But it should last longer if he always keeps it under the wraps.

Someone shouts two floors down and Leo startles—it's the man on the second floor with two children and a wife, the man who Leo has seen study the Shredder's propaganda with interest. It's likely that he'll become a Foot soldier this winter. He shouts because he's worried; he's worried because there is not enough food for factory workers, because there are Shredder-sponsored factories that promise greater pay but longer hours, because there is both greater pay and shorter hours as a Foot soldier but a steeper risk. It is a matter of balance. Leo already knows how he will kill him, if it comes to that. He's not a bad man. It will be quick.

Leo shouldn't be here, living with humans—but the tenement doesn't have a landlord and there aren't many other occupants, so it's safe enough for a few weeks. No one's seen him, yet. The window has no cracks, and the water runs hot if he tries it early enough in the morning. When Leo moved in, he put up a patched curtain and hauled some old blankets in for a makeshift bed, so it's almost homey. There is a framed painting on the wall, yellowed with age; the paint is cracked like an eggshell. It's of a lake, where there are green trees overhanging the water and a dock that stands bravely in the choppy waves. There's something soothing about it, and it's why he decided to stay here. He's considered taking it when he leaves, but where would he keep it?

He finishes the last cut while half-listening to the argument downstairs. It's begun to snow by the time he looks up; a few flakes have stuck to the glass. Leo shudders. He needs to find a coat—a good one, something flexible and warm with plenty of room to hide weapons. The one he wore last winter has been in shreds since the attack in February, and it wasn't big enough. He thinks about needing the coat, and he is aware of how quiet it is in here, with the snow drifting down outside and the muffled argument two floors away from him, and he is aware, too, of the way he's trembling. "I need a coat," he says, mostly because he's curious if it will help.

When no one answers, he realizes how stupid it was of him to think it would. "Maybe a trenchcoat," he continues, since he's already depressed himself and it feels good to talk even if it's to no one. "Something long and sturdy. You know, I always thought it would be cool if—" He stops himself; it's tipped over to just depressing, now, and a little embarrassing. He clears his throat, checks the window—the snow's picked up—and begins rolling a piece of the hose up his arm. Immediately he's a little warmer, and he whispers his thanks to April under his breath.

With a piece of the hose on each hand and foot and the wraps in place, he's already warming up; he shrugs on the remains of his tattered coat. The night's still young. He could go out and wreak some havoc, or at least gather some intel—but outside the light has gone from yellow to white, and it's coming down too hard out there for the cost to be worth it. It wouldn't make him less alone, anyway. Instead, Leonardo hunkers down in his nest, draws the few blankets he has around him, and watches the snow build against his window.


End file.
